


Envoy of Love

by sludge



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Bath Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fix-It, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Plot, Romance, intimate bathing, my goal is to give shiro the closure and happiness he deserves!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludge/pseuds/sludge
Summary: Shiro enters an intergalactic show of strength to win an alliance with an alien race—and Keith’s heart.Lance jabs his elbow at Keith. “C’mon, Keith, c’mooon. How many people can say a nine-foot-tall sentient tree competed for their love in a competition broadcast all over the universe? Besides, Shiro’s here to defend your virginity or whatever.”
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a shiro-centric fix-it! it takes place in s8, but in an AU where olkarion is never destroyed and things basically end after the final fight of s7. basically, i wrote this to be what i had wished the Clear Day episode had been for shiro. i hope it all makes sense!
> 
> the original alien stuff here in the beginning is just to act as a set piece.  
>  *****if you want to skip it, start reading at the line that begins with "Well. That's what Shiro thinks is the case, at least."*****

In the solar system nearest the Olkari, the only space faring race are the Cyclians.

The Cyclians have a unique lifecycle—they begin as buds, deep within the ground, growing from an underwater river system that spans their entire planet.

Once the little buds absorb enough nourishing quintessence-filled water from the river, they burst from the soil. In this young phase, they look like tiny round creatures with soft leaves that curl into greenish tips, like little cabbages fresh from the patch. They focus only on base survival instincts: photosynthesize, sleep, hide from danger. As they mature, becoming larger and greener, taking on all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors, they bloom out of their instincts and can focus on more complex thoughts, space travel and interplanetary diplomacy among them.

The mark of their maturity is a growing appetite for procreation that progresses into an all-consuming frenzy. They exhaust themselves in their passion to sow their seeds, creating dozens of little buds that will sink into the ground and someday become new Cyclians. Their mating rituals are intense and involve weeks of complex, twirling flower dances and physical displays to impress potential partners.

The Cyclians don’t die. Instead, after a few dozen deca-phoebs at their peak physical and mental state, they begin to shrink slowly. They wilt, losing their mental faculties before returning to their bud form and sinking back into the soil, where they lay dormant until the planetary river system imbues them with enough energy to begin the cycle again. An eternal cycle of death and rebirth.

Zarkon’s regime coveted the planet of Cyclio for its huge reserves of clean, pure water—a precious resource in the desert of space, especially when the water is so rich with quintessence. The Galran mining operations had almost sucked the planet dry before the Empire fell. They’ve only just begun the first stages of the recovery process.

Well.

That’s what Shiro thinks is the case, at least. A Cyclian royal council member has been lecturing him and Allura for the past twenty minutes in the corner of this alien ballroom.

He knows he should be listening to this important information about their newest potential allies—and he's trying to pay attention, he really is. But Shiro has to admit that his mind is elsewhere right now.

The truth is that he can’t seem to take his eyes off of Keith, who is tied up in the vines of the Cyclian prince, spinning around in circles as they dance to fast-tempoed string music in the center of the hall.

The prince appeared to be quite taken with Keith, smitten as soon as they stepped off the Atlas and into the forest-city capital of Cyclio. Shiro and Allura had to go into opening alliance negotiations without the leader of Voltron because the prince had _personally_ insisted on giving Keith a tour of the royal palace.

Keith’s face is pleasantly flushed and he lets out a laugh when the prince dips him low to the floor. A muscle twitches in Shiro’s jaw, but it’s fine. Really. Keith is just gaining the royal favor to make their Coalition negotiations easier. Shiro’s not jealous.

Besides, Keith isn’t—isn’t _his._ The leader of Voltron is free to dance with whatever alien prince he wants. They’re here, Shiro reminds himself yet again, for diplomacy. They’re here to build ties and convince the Cyclians to join the Voltron Coalition. He’s got to keep himself focused on the mission at hand, not waste his time being sour.

The song ends and the lanterns in the room dim, illuminating only a raised dais at the head of the hall. The crowd around him hums in anticipation.

Keith, still panting from the dance, threads his way through the crowd to join where Shiro and the rest of the team have gathered together.

“You looked like you were having fun,” Shiro says, letting his voice be casual.

“For a huge tree, that prince can dance,” Keith says, catching his breath. His cheeks are still pink from twirling around. It’s not hard to see how the Cyclian prince might be so taken with him, Shiro thinks.

“Better than a human?” Shiro asks.

He wonders if he imagines Keith’s eyes flickering over him, head to toe.

“Nah,” Keith says. “No one could compare.”

Around them, a hush falls over the crowd as the Cyclian prince and his advisor ascend the stage at the front of the hall, followed by Princess Allura, Coran, and a few other high-ranking emissaries from other planets.

“Hey,” Keith whispers, quiet enough for only Shiro to hear. “We’re going back to Earth after this, right? Let’s go racing when we get home. Just like old times.”

“You mean you want me to leave you in the dust again, just like old times? Sure, I can do that,” Shiro murmurs, bumping their shoulders together.

Keith looks up at Shiro. In the low light, his dark eyes seem to twinkle a little when he grins. “Alright. It’s a date.”

There’s a sudden screech of mic feedback and Coran’s voice crackles to life from the speakers staged on all sides of the hall. (Shiro is still questioning the decision of whoever decided to give Coran emcee duties for this event.)

“Attention, honored guests! Gather ‘round, gather ‘round! My name is Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe and I will be your announcer this evening! It’s time for the opening ceremony to begin!”

Around them, crowd members start buzzing excitedly. Beings from across the universe—including from the Voltron Coalition—have gathered on Cyclio to witness the end to the largest collective mating ritual of the century. Allura had described it with stars in her eyes during the trip here: the delight and merriment of attendees dancing and feasting and taking part in contests with the Cyclians, all in the name of love and life.

“Tonight, Prince Zelus of Cyclio will bestow the highest honor upon one lucky bachelor or bachelorette, who will be named the Prize of Love for this century’s Festival of Love! Prospective contestants must then declare their intent to compete for the Prize across three days of the mightiest, most heart-pounding series of contests this universe has ever seen!”

From his right side, Hunk nudges Shiro and asks under his breath, “I still don’t think I get this whole thing. Is this like a beauty pageant or what?”

“Sounds more like a Mr. Universe contest,” Pidge chimes in from the left. “But, like, literally.”

“What’s there to get?” Lance remarks from behind. “You get up on stage, you flex your muscles for the cameras, and whoever’s sexiest gets the Prize. Maybe I should compete if the prince picks someone hot.”

“No way,” Keith hisses. “We’re here to observe, not participate. Don’t embarrass us, dude.”

On stage, the Cyclian prince, the one who had been dancing with Keith just minutes ago, accepts the mic from Coran to the applause of the crowd.

Prince Zelus is towering and humanoid with rigid, wooden green skin, two jewel-bright eyes, sharp teeth, and a leafy head dotted with white blossoms. Beneath his woven fiber robes are long bunches of vines, knotting together to form his arms and legs. He’s a popular figure with the crowd—young, confident, and in the very first flushes of Cyclian maturity.

Zelus is the one to impress on this mission. Beloved by his people and holding enormous sway with the royal council that’s in charge of handling Coalition negotiations, gaining Zelus’ favor would be hugely beneficial. He’s been nothing but cordial to the team since they landed, but Shiro still regards him as somewhat of an unknown quantity.

With a dazzling smile and clear voice, the prince calls out, “Welcome, friends from across the galaxies! Thank you all for joining us for this century’s Festival of Love!”

Zelus launches into a speech about the hardships his people have faced, about resisting the Galran regime, and reclaiming their customs after centuries of oppression.

The entire time, Shiro can’t help but notice the prince’s gaze surreptitiously returning to Keith in the crowd.

He also notices that Zelus isn’t the only one looking in Keith’s direction.

Beside the prince is the tiny Minister Bia, a squat, vivid reddish-purple cabbage on legs and the prince’s closest advisor. Unlike the welcoming Prince Zelus, Minister Bia has shown to hold nothing but open contempt for the Coalition, glaring at them and furiously hissing in his prince’s ear at random. Right now, he’s looking at Keith as if Keith has just insulted him personally.

“Tonight, on the eve of the Festival, we announce the Prize of Love!” Zelus declares. “The Prize is a being of great beauty and intelligence, one able to ignite the spirit of our people! Contestants will fight to prove their worthiness of the Prize.” He bows, somewhat stiffly, perhaps owing to the fact that he’s a tree. “This prince is honored to count himself among the participants in this century’s contests.”

Applause. A few hopefuls in the crowd bounce on their heels in anticipation. On stage, Allura smiles politely, though her eyes on Zelus are wary.

“He’s totally gonna pick Allura,” Lance says out of the corner of his mouth. “No question. Did you see how he smiled at her when we arrived?”

“No way,” Hunk says. “He’s not gonna pick one of us. It’s gotta be—”

“I, Prince Zelus, choose the Black Paladin of Voltron, Keith Kogane, to be this century’s Prize of Love!” Zelus announces, drawing himself to his full height.

The crowd erupts in cheers.

“Holy shit,” Lance says.

Hunk just lets out a low whistle.

Meanwhile, Shiro’s brain has stopped.

Keith? Did Shiro hear correctly? _Keith?_

The flash of shock he feels is followed by something ugly and searing, something that turns his stomach. He should have known. He should have realized it with how Zelus has been looking at Keith since they arrived.

Keith is stock-still beside him, a look of utter revulsion coloring his face. Even Allura and Coran on stage seem surprised. Minister Bia openly looks furious at his prince, clearly disapproving his choice. Zelus, with the confidence only one born into royalty can have, just looks pleased and smug.

“What the _fuck,”_ Lance hisses at the group. “Is he serious? He’s not serious, right? Does he mean some other Keith we’ve never met? A different Black Paladin?”

But Shiro knows from the sparkle in Zelus’ eyes as he gazes upon a stunned Keith that there’s no doubting his choice. The crowd around them buzzes in their excitement, shuffling around as some try to get a peek of this century’s official Prize of Love.

And the trouble doesn’t stop there—one by one, mature Cyclians, as well as Olkari, Puigans, even a few Unilu, and other members of races across the universe all step forward to declare their intent to fight for—for _Keith._ Shiro’s heart thumps in his ears, drowning out the sound of Prince Zelus acknowledging each in turn, his smile glinting sharply in the setting sun.

Shiro is used to making split decisions in the heat of battle. Sometimes he finds himself giving out orders before his brain can even catch up and register what his mouth is saying. That instinct is how he’s survived this long, and how he’s gotten himself and his team out of countless close calls. Shiro has never once regretted making a decision. Even if it was ultimately the wrong one.

Perhaps that same instinct is why he hears his own voice calling out to the hall: “I, Captain Takashi Shirogane of Earth, will also compete for the Prize of Love.”

* * *

The capital of Cyclio is part-city, part-forest. Most of the city crumbled under Zarkon’s occupation, leaving behind broken gray stone structures that mingle with the trees.

But the royal palace is new—the first thing rebuilt after Cyclio was freed. The palace stands in the center of the city, scarless, cavernous, and carved of stark white marble imported from a faraway moon. A royal attendant tells them it was designed in the same image of the old palace to inspire the Cyclian people in their efforts to reclaim their former glory.

But looking at this white palace among the city ruins, Shiro can’t help but wonder how the citizens see it—how do the ordinary Cyclians, in their homes of rubble, look at this reminder of the past? Maybe to them, the palace is nothing more than a pale imitation of what they once were, incapable of erasing their planet’s war-ravaged past.

Maybe it only reminds them of what they’ve lost.

Somewhat restlessly, Shiro flexes the fingers of his floating arm, which is still recent and unfamiliar to him, and in the bright midday sunshine, it seems to gleam just like the new marble palace.

The royal attendant continues leading Shiro and the Paladins on their tour of the royals grounds, guiding them across a pristine terrace that overlooks the training area for Festival participants. Alien beings of all kinds spar on the packed-earth clearings, or sprint laps, or run exercise drills in groups. Most are young Cyclians gearing up for the competition, ready to compete at the height of their physicality.

All of them competing for Keith.

“Whoa,” Hunk says as a particularly leafy Cyclian jogs by. “Are these guys edible? I could make a mean kimchi outta those leaves.”

Pidge adjusts her glasses, which glint wickedly in the sun. “Technically, anything is edible as long as eating it doesn’t kill you.”

Across the training grounds, Prince Zelus is showing off for a gaggle of adoring guests. He wraps his vine-arms around two pillars of stone and squeezes until they crack and break into rubble. His audience roars with delight.

“Yeah, okay. Definitely not edible.”

“Don’t think about eating our hosts, Hunk,” Shiro says. “We need them to trust us if we want any hope of getting them to join the Coalition.”

“Hey, they like us enough to proclaim Keith as the universe’s most eligible bachelor, didn’t they? I say we’re in pretty good standing right now,” Hunk says.

“This is such a pain in the ass,” Keith grumbles, crossing his arms. “I don’t trust this. We said we would only be here to observe and now it feels like they’re forcing our hand with this Prize shit. They could be setting up an ambush or something.”

“Dude, an alien prince got the hots for you and you’re gonna say it’s all some _conspiracy?”_ Lance says incredulously. “Have some self-esteem.”

Keith huffs. “What about that weird cabbage-head minister guy? I don’t like his look.”

“He does seem kind of shifty,” Pidge admits. “He never stops glaring at us.”

Beside Prince Zelus and his gaggle of admirers, Minister Bia is tapping his foot impatiently. His gaze flickers over to Shiro, Keith, and the rest of the team and he scowls. The leaves on his head seem to get even redder with consternation.

“Why don’t you withdraw if you hate it so much, Keith?” Pidge asks. “Allura, couldn’t he do that?”

Allura taps her chin thoughtfully. “You’re technically correct, but I’m afraid a Prize of Love withdrawing would be considered bad form,” she says. “It’s an honor to be picked and does not bestow any obligation after the Festival ends, so it’s not exactly regarded as a hardship. They may view it as a slight if Keith pulls out.”

Keith makes a noise of frustration at that and kicks the toe of his boot against the ground. Stubborn as he is, Shiro knows he’d never risk the Coalition on something like this without hard evidence of a conspiracy.

Lance jabs his elbow at Keith. “C’mon, Keith, c’mooon. How many people can say a nine-foot-tall sentient tree competed for their love in a competition broadcast all over the universe? Besides, Shiro’s here to defend your virginity or whatever.” He waggles his eyebrows gleefully. “Do it for the Vine, bro.”

Keith glares at Lance and raises a hand to flip him off. “I’m just saying we need to be on alert. We’ve been burned by potential allies before.”

Internally, Shiro knows Keith isn’t wrong to be cautious. Not every planet they’ve reached out to has welcomed them with open arms, and Shiro can’t blame them for being distrustful after they’ve suffered so much.

But this is the same thread Keith’s been pursuing since they left the ceremony last night, so Shiro knows this argument is going to continue in circles unless he steps in.

(And, truthfully, Shiro would like nothing more than to fake some reason to pull out and put negotiations on hold until after the Festival. He’d gone as far as to secretly contact Kolivan the previous evening to ask if there were any Blade missions that required Keith’s immediate presence. Kolivan’s face had twitched in what _almost_ seemed like amusement as he just told Shiro that he was looking forward to watching them both in the Festival.)

So Shiro pulls out his best captain’s voice and addresses the group. “Alright, guys. We’re here to form an alliance, not get suspicious. It’s our job to play nice unless they give us a reason not to.” And then to Keith directly: “I know it’s not ideal, but do you think you can do this for me?”

From across the training grounds, Prince Zelus spots the group. He looks directly at Keith and raises a vine-arm to wave vigorously in greeting, eyes bright with excitement. Beside him, Minister Bia tugs on the prince’s woven robes, seeming to scold him. Keith’s face twists, half-disgust and half-annoyance.

But he raises a hand back to greet Zelus anyway. “Fine,” he grits out. “But only because _you_ asked.”

* * *

Mature Cyclians are all over the place in terms of size and shape. Some, like Minister Bia, stand barely level with Pidge’s elbows while others, like Prince Zelus, loom several heads taller than Shiro. Right now, Shiro feels like he’s standing in a jungle instead of the backstage waiting area with other Festival contestants and several royal attendants.

Zelus stands out the most, his head of pollen-dusted white blossoms making him the tallest thing in the room. A few Olkari and Puigan contestants look around nervously, many of them clearly uncomfortable at being so out of place.

Honestly, Shiro can relate. He’s kind of been feeling out of place himself lately.

He blinks and mentally shakes his head. Now isn’t the time to think about that kind of thing—instead, he needs to keep his focus on this first competition.

A dark-haired figure bobs and weaves through the crowd toward Shiro. It’s Keith, and he approaches Shiro while tugging at the hem of his red-and-white Garrison dress uniform. They gave him a crown to mark his status as Prize of Love: a bright silver diadem molded to look like a wreath of tiny leaves.

Shiro looks at Keith and the figure he cuts wearing his best uniform and the diadem. The delicate, woven silver sits in his dark hair like it belongs there.

“The crown looks good on you,” Shiro remarks, hoping his voice is casual enough.

“Whatever.” Keith scoffs, but Shiro notices the way the tips of his ears go red.

“Hey, I mean it. Really brings out your eyes.”

Shiro expects it when Keith tries to shove him off balance, so he sidesteps and throws his arm around Keith’s neck, squeezing playfully.

A passing royal attendant shoots them a look. Right, right, Shiro is just a contestant right now; it’s not good optics if he’s too familiar with the Prize of Love. He releases Keith and they both straighten up, clearing their throats.

“I heard they’re putting you up in the royal viewing box with Allura. You should get going, Mr. Prize of Love,” Shiro says very seriously.

“Yeah, yeah, remind me again that I have to sit on my ass for this entire thing. At least you’re getting a good workout,” he grumbles.

Keith is kind of right; the events of the Festival of Love are all physical competitions, spread out over three days and designed to measure… something. Their fortitude and their vitality, something like that. There are deep ceremonial reasons for each event, each having to do with traditional Cyclian mating preferences, but Shiro has to admit he zoned out just a little during that part of Zelus’ speech.

Beside him, Keith fidgets with the ends of his sleeves like he does when he’s feeling antsy. “You know, you don’t have to do this,” he says so quietly that he almost sounds shy about it. “Compete in the Festival, I mean.”

“And let some alien Prince Charming steal you away?” Shiro says. “This team would fall apart if you abandoned us to marry into royalty. There’s no way I could let that happen.”

That’s enough to get some of the tension to leave Keith’s shoulders. He snickers and the sound sends a little thrill through Shiro’s chest.

God, he’s got it bad.

“Hey,” Keith says, nudging him gently in the side. “Are you really sure you’re good with doing this? I heard these contests can get pretty tough. You haven’t done something like this since... since after you woke up.” He asks it lightly enough, but Shiro can see the genuine concern weighing on his face.

 _Since after you woke up,_ he said.

 _Since you got put in the clone body_ is what Shiro hears unspoken.

Keith is technically right, about him not having done much since... all that happened. But he’ll be fine. He’s fine. The Festival will be a great opportunity to show everyone that he’s just the same Shiro he was even before he got a—a new body. And a new arm.

He flexes the fingers of his floating hand, as if to just remind himself that he can.

“I’ll be fine. This Festival is just what I need to get back out there. It’ll be like breaking in a new pair of shoes,” Shiro says firmly, ignoring the sudden coil of tension constricting his insides. “Besides, I gotta fight for your honor, don’t I? I can’t back down now.” He tries to swallow, but his throat suddenly feels tight, too.

Keith draws his eyebrows, looking like he isn’t convinced. “Shiro, are you really sure you’re alri—“

“Alright, contestants, take your places! The first Test begins in just a few doboshes!” Coran booms over the speakers.

A group of royal attendants swarm them, putting an end to any conversation.

They drag a grumpy-looking Keith off, and Shiro is led to his designated contestant spot on a raised stage. He stands in a line amongst the other contestants, the lone human of the bunch. They’re surrounded on all sides by the audience and broadcasting hover-cams.

Just like the Voltron Show, Shiro thinks. He can do this. He stopped getting nervous before those by the end, right?

No, he reminds himself. No, that was—

That was the clone who got nervous. Not him.

He mentally shakes his head, trying to snap himself back to the present. _Stop thinking about it,_ Shiro thinks. _Stay focused._

Not even fifteen feet away from where Shiro stands, Pidge, Hunk, Lance, and Romelle are sitting in the front row, passing around between them what Shiro could swear is a bucket of alien popcorn. Two rows behind them is Minister Bia, glaring at Shiro on stage, his reddish leaves tinged purple at the tips in anger. (Shiro would imagine that his blood pressure must be through the roof, but he’s not sure if the Cyclians even have blood.)

Coran takes his place behind the podium at the edge of the stage, wearing the Cyclians’ traditional woven garb, which looks suspiciously like a burlap sack with holes for his head and limbs. He taps his mic and clears his throat.

“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round—no biting over there, Contest Number 8, keep it civil! Hello, everyone! Welcome to the first event of the Festival of Love—the Test of Power!”

Shiro takes a deep breath as Coran babbles on for the cameras. Four contestants down the line, Prince Zelus is tall, regal, and smug in his confidence. Shiro can’t help but flex the fingers of his floating hand again.

“The Test of Power is designed to measure your prowess of physical might!” Coran announces. “For the best and most worthy of the Prize of Love must also be the strongest!”

In the royal viewing box above the crowd, Keith flashes a thumbs up and Allura waves excitedly. On the inside, Shiro tries to tamp down his growing nerves.

“Each contestant must lift objects of increasing weight and hold them aloft for a minimum of five ticks to pass to the next round! Dropping the weight means you’re out! Splitting a weight in twain means you’re out! A knee or rear end touching the ground means you’re out! Consuming or attempting to consume a weight will result in an automatic disqualification from future Festivals! Only the top quarter of contestants will advance to the next Test and the ultimate winner of the Test of Power will be whomever successfully lifts the heaviest weight!”

A flurry of royal attendants rushes before the line of contestants, each guiding a hovercart that holds a stack of what appear to be carved stone discs of increasing sizes. Not exactly the kind of weights Shiro knows best, but he’s good at adapting to the situation, right?

“Get set! Round one—begin!”

The first and smallest disc is about the size of a mini scaultrite lens and weighs what feels like barely a pound. Shiro picks it up with one hand and holds it above his head, breathing the smallest sigh of relief. Easy.

From the stands, Hunk, Pidge, and Romelle cheer and Lance wolf-whistles. From the royal box, Keith and Allura wave their arms, enthusiastically shouting something Shiro’s too far away to hear.

“A fine showing of the first round! Let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?”

Each disc is slightly heavier than the last. Shiro lifts the weights in turn and his team in the stands treats him to rowdy cheering and catcalling. “Nice one, Captain!” and “Show ‘em who’s boss!” and “Fuck it _up,_ Shiro!”

It’s easy stuff so far; nothing unusual or strenuous. Just lifting weights and using his body as he always has. But, for some reason, the cloud of apprehension that’s descended upon him keeps growing.

 _It’s just performance anxiety,_ Shiro tells himself. _Nothing to worry about. You’re fine. You’re fine._

By round four, Shiro can’t lift the weights with one hand anymore. Around him, contestants begin to drop out one by one, struggling to hold the larger discs in their thin claws or with muscles that aren’t accustomed to the high gravity of Cyclio. The Taujeerian beside him grunts in exertion before their disc slips from their soft paws and goes rolling off the stage and into the crowd.

“Seems our contestants are starting to face the first real challenges of the Test of Power!” Coran announces over the loudspeaker. “Today measures mental fortitude as well as physical strength!”

By round seven, Shiro starts to feel the strain in his arms and shoulders. The discs are awkwardly shaped, rough-hewn, and without clear handholds (vine-holds?) or any good place for his fingers to find purchase. He nearly fumbles in the ninth round, needing to use the thruster on his floating arm to keep the disc from wobbling out of his grasp. His heart pounds in his ears until the royal attendant in front of him flashes a light to indicate he’s passed the five tick mark.

After the tenth round, they’re granted a ten dobosh break. Over half of the contestants have been eliminated, leaving only Shiro, Prince Zelus, and barely a dozen of the others. Shiro takes a step back, lifting his Garrison-issue athletic shirt to mop up the sweat beading on his brow.

Prince Zelus approaches him, looking completely unaffected by all the lifting. Can sentient trees even sweat?

“Do you tire already, Captain Shirogane? This prince expected greater competition. Paladin Kogane shall be unimpressed.”

Shiro resists the urge to reach up and flick Zelus in the middle of his woody forehead.

“The Test isn’t over yet, Your Highness. If humans are good at one thing, it’s sticking with a challenge until the very end.”

“Noted, Captain.” Zelus’ smile is genuine, but his eyes never quite lose their sharpness.

With newfound energy suddenly pulsing through his veins, Shiro powers through the next three rounds without faltering. From the royal box, Keith gives Shiro a little wave and his heart starts pounding in his ears in a way that has nothing to do with the Test.

More and more contestants drop out. Shiro tries not to let his determination waver. The knot of apprehension in his stomach is still there, but he’s found a way to stay focused.

In the void of the Black Lion, at the times when he felt the most rootless and detached, he would try to find some sort of mental anchor to focus on. He would run through flight training drills or try to recreate his grandmother’s living room in his mind or focus on anything that felt the most real in his memory in a given moment.

This time, he thinks of Keith. _Let’s go racing when we get home. Just like old times,_ he had said. The image of Keith in Shiro’s mind gives him something to cling to, something to hold him down.

“What a spine-tingling, rip-roaring, hair-thickening Test of Power we’ve seen, folks! It’s time for the last round between our finalists—Prince Zelus of Cyclio and Captain Shirogane of Earth!” Coran thunders over the speakers to the cheers of the audience. Shiro looks around at the nearly empty stage—he didn’t even realize how many were gone.

Now it’s just him and Zelus.

It takes three attendants to drop the fifteenth weight at Shiro’s feet. The stone disc is gigantic, wider than Shiro can wrap his arms around and at least a foot thick. He doesn’t know how he’ll pick it up off the stage, much less hold it over his head.

The apprehension Shiro’s been holding at bay suddenly washes over him all at once like a cold wave. There’s no way he can lift this himself, and there’s no Team Voltron to bail him out, either.

As plant life, the Cyclians have rigid cell walls, making them strong and sturdy, although their strength has clear upper limits. Humans are much weaker and softer. But when they’re pushed, humans can perform incredible feats of strength—stuff that goes beyond the boundaries of what should be possible.

But he knows he can’t rely on what _should_ be true. Not anymore.

That’s because Shiro knows his new body has been… modified. Ever since he woke up, he’s noticed he doesn’t tire as easily as he once did. His lungs seem to require less oxygen, and he aches a little less after sparring sessions, too. All little adjustments that Hagger must have made to— _him._ They gave him an edge in the final fight against Sendak, and he’s betting those same adjustments are what have kept him in this Test of Power for so long, too.

But he doesn’t know what else has changed and he doesn’t know this body’s limits. He can’t trust that he’ll know how his muscles and his mind will work in a situation like this.

(He tries to ignore how that thought makes him feel a little less human.)

Shiro’s going to have to rely on his focus to survive this final round. He glances back up at Keith in the royal box, too, just for luck.

Zelus kneels down on the stage and unknits his vine-arms, slipping them under and around the gigantic disc like a net to secure it. Shiro has to admit it looks… pretty creepy, actually.

“Good luck, Captain Shirogane,” he says coolly, shooting a sideways look at Shiro. “After all, the leader of Voltron deserves only the strongest.”

Zelus’ remark is meant to be challenging and it works—it makes some of Shiro’s anxiety vanish as it activates the competitive part of his brain. He can’t let himself lose Keith to this guy.

Shiro locks the fingers of his floating arm around the edge of the stone, focusing his energy into the thruster. His mind will provide the power it needs while his human arm keeps the weight steady.

“Good luck to you, too, Your Highness.”

Shiro takes in a full, deep breath.

“Ready, set—lift!” Coran calls.

Shiro lifts. Every muscle in his body burns. His knees nearly buckle with the weight. Sweat pours down his face, stinging his eyes, but he can’t reach up to wipe it away. His mind goes empty—all his brain can focus on is bringing the weight up, up, up, pushing the thruster harder, keeping his grip tight around the edge of the disc.

He’s able to swing it over his head at the same moment as Zelus, who he sees out of the corner of his eye. In front of them, lights flash to count down the ticks in time with Coran’s voice.

“Five! Four!”

Shiro can feel his human arm tremble violently, threatening to fail under the strain. He tries to swear under his breath, but there’s no air left in his lungs.

“Three! Two!”

A half-choked gasp comes from beside him. It’s Zelus, whose trunk is bowing dangerously.

“One!”

Shiro clenches his jaw so hard he’s afraid he’ll break something. But then—

The sound of stone hitting the stage. Zelus' weight, slipped from his vine-arms.

“Zero! Captain Shirogane wins the Test of Power!”

The crowd roars.

Shiro lets the stone weight tumble onto the stage in front of him. Blood rushes to his head as he gulps in lungfuls of air. Coran’s saying something, but Shiro can’t hear it. He doesn’t even see Hunk, Lance, Pidge, and Romelle jumping out of their seats, or Minister Bia cursing and stomping out of the audience.

All Shiro sees is Keith, in the royal box, cheering, laughing, pumping his fists triumphantly.

Shiro, he—he won the first contest of the Festival. He won the Test of Power.

He can’t help a smile from spreading over his face as he waves to the crowd and the cameras. More than anything, more than pride or satisfaction or victory, he feels... relieved. He didn’t lose to Zelus and his arrogance. He hasn’t embarrassed the Coalition. He didn’t let his team down.

And, most importantly, he hasn’t lost Keith just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE SCENE #1
>
>> “You know, I once competed in the Festival of Love as a young man!” Coran announces. “A Cyclian princess took a real shine to King Alfor, so Allura’s mother and I stepped in to compete for his honor!”
>> 
>> “Did you win?” Shiro asks.
>> 
>> Coran pulls at his mustache for a moment as he contemplates his answer. “Let’s just say Queen Melenor was as vicious in the arena as she was beautiful. You’d never know by looking at her that she was able to chop a tree clean in half with her bare hands!”


	2. Chapter 2

The night after the Test of Power, Shiro and the rest of the team celebrate with a bottle of Earth champagne pilfered from Iverson’s secret stash aboard the Atlas.

Everyone laughs and drinks and congratulates Shiro on his win. Lance and Pidge commentate as a tipsy Coran tries to lift Kosmo, even though he keeps teleporting just out of reach. Allura and Hunk kiss Shiro on each cheek, which makes Shiro laugh, and Keith squeezes his bicep and praises him for winning, which makes him feel more intoxicated than the alcohol does. They only call it a night when someone reminds him he has to be up early tomorrow for the second Test.

He turns in for the evening feeling warm and light.

The night after the Test of Power, when the party ends and he returns to the quiet loneliness of his empty room, Shiro lays in bed and thinks of things he misses.

It’s been a while since he let himself reminisce like this. He misses the simple pleasures he knew on Earth. The smell of soup simmering in his grandmother’s clay pot. Racing through the desert side-by-side with Keith. The sun rising over the Sonoran.

Strangely enough, he finds he misses his Galran arm, too. He thought about it as he was powering down the floating arm for the night.

It was gone when he awoke after Allura brought him back. Severed during the fight with Keith, though Shiro couldn’t quite locate that new memory in his mind at first.

When he lost his flesh-and-bone arm in the gladiator arena, when it was crushed by the fangs of a starving monster they tossed in to fight him—it was simply only the most visible thing Zarkon had taken from him.

Haggar had immediately seen the loss as an opportunity, and Shiro was left dealing with the phantom pains and the shock for only a few days before they fused the new arm to him.

It feels strange to miss that arm. As much as it was a symbol of what ruined him, he also couldn’t have survived that year without using it to fight.

But his arm wasn’t the only thing that was missing when he awoke. The Castle of Lions, his home for so long, was also gone; destroyed in order to close the rifts left by Lotor’s Sincline. Or so Keith had told him, long after the fact. Speaking of, he even missed Keith disappearing for a few weeks and returning two years older.

He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to any of the things he misses. Goodbye to his arm. Goodbye to the Castle. Goodbye to his original body. To the three years they lost in the quintessence field. To his grandmother. To Adam, even.

He’s lost so much, he realizes. He misses so much.

And now, what does he have left?

A new arm, detached, disconnected. A new body, one that looks like the original but feels like a stranger’s.

New memories. Memories of a thing that wasn’t him. Memories that hang over him, plaguing his dreams, making him question reality. The clone spent almost as much time with his team as he did. He knows this because he can remember it all now, everything in perfect detail. His team, welcoming the clone as if it were real. The clone’s hand on Keith’s shoulder. The clone who took Shiro’s place and bonded with them all—and now Shiro is left feeling like the outsider trying to find space for himself.

Does his team notice a difference? Does Keith? Shiro isn’t sure.

The night after the Test of Power, Shiro wonders just who exactly Keith and his team see when they look at him.

* * *

Cyclio was once blanketed all in green, lush and verdant. But since Zarkon’s occupation mined the lands, many areas of the planet were sapped of life, leaving behind stretches of barren bluffs and dry desert. When the Galra descended, throttling the land, they took away the water that sustained everything with its quintessence.

With no water, the budding Cyclians beneath the soil shriveled away; a generation forever lost. The entire planet would have been destroyed, collapsing in on itself, if not for the fall of Zarkon. The land lays now a husk of its former glory.

Shiro wonders if the Festival this century holds more weight with the Cyclians than it did in the past. It’s the first Festival in a thousand years that they’ve had as free people. Shiro wonders if they feel as lost as he does sometimes, trying to remember who they are without Zarkon’s hands strangling them.

But even in the most sterile recesses of Cyclio, Shiro notices little sprouts of life poking up through the shattered ground. Wiry brown roots, tiny leafy stems, bulbous little plants that look almost like cacti.

Even after the regime had taken away so much, the planet is slowly beginning to heal.

He noticed it first when the Atlas descended into orbit, but the emptiness of Cyclio reminds Shiro remarkably of the canyons and deserts back on Earth. Even more so now that he can see swathes of open land from where he’s clinging to a rock face several hundred feet in the air.

“Oho! It seems Prince Zelus and Captain Shirogane are the first to reach the final stretch! Who will pull ahead in the thrilling conclusion of the Test of Stamina—and prove their resolve to winning the Prize of Love!” Coran’s voice echoes from below and a distant roar from the audience answers.

Shiro’s human arm aches from the strain of climbing. He climbed a bit back in his time on Earth, but it was never anything like this. Sweat impedes his grasp on the jutting rock he’s using as a handhold. Sharp outcroppings threaten to slice open a stray palm or knee. The cliffs are rough, broken from the Galra, not yet smooth-tumbled and worn from the winds of time.

The purpose of this Test is to measure their physical and mental endurance. Or whatever. Shiro really couldn’t care less about alien courting rituals right now, especially when those rituals have him trying to climb a near-sheer cliff face in a race to the top.

Shiro doesn’t know how long it’s been since the climb started. It was the crack of dawn when Shiro was strapped into a climbing harness and Keith was dragged to the royal viewing box at the top of the cliff like a condemned man to the gallows, and now the beating sun is high above them.

Shiro pauses on the rocks to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Fuck, he’s tired. Not even astronaut bootcamp back at the Garrison pushed him this hard for this long.

Even though the magnetic tether between his floating arm and the shoulder port is strong, he’s learned that placing too much weight on it creates a sharp, burning pull deep within his shoulder as he tries to drag himself up the cliff.

The feeling makes him wince, but he tries to push the pain from his mind. There’s no time to think about the discomfort, not when Zelus has already pulled ahead of him by almost two meters on the left. Like the first Test, the prince looks barely affected; he uses the tendrils of his arms and legs to slide in between the crags like ivy up a brick wall.

“Catch up, Captain!” Zelus calls from his vantage up the cliff. “I won’t let you win this time!”

Shiro just grits his teeth. He reaches his floating arm up, pulling on the bounds of the tether, trying to inch closer to a rocky overhang that will bring him to a section with a less severe angle of elevation. The twinge in his shoulder grows, aching and sharp.

He can do this. He just has to find it within himself; he has to reach into the well of strength that keeps him clear-headed in the face of stress. His body has always been his greatest tool, something he could rely on, even when he was thrown into that Galran arena without ever having been in so much as a schoolyard fight before.

But god, he’s tired. He moved mechanically at first, outpacing all the other contestants as he focused on steadily moving upwards, but the exhaustion crept up on him. He’s almost slipped a few times, his hands and feet not quite catching up with his brain, which is already cloudy from too much adrenaline and not enough sleep the previous night.

The sun burns his neck, sweat pours down his face, and his mind can’t seem to focus on any part of this endlessly empty gray wall in front of him any longer.

Between his own muscles screaming, the crowd below screaming—

His concentration is slipping and Shiro, he—he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Something feels strangely familiar, like deja vu, but accompanied by a twisting sense of dread.

A thought lingering at the edge of his mind, something he’s been trying to keep at bay. The feeling—the memory—of crashing on a snowy planet after escaping that ship, of pulling himself to safety on the side of a gorge—just like this one—as a stolen Galran pod slides into the abyss behind him—but no, Shiro thinks, these aren’t his own memories, are they?

It all blurs in his mind, but he knows they belong to the—the clone—

Shiro opens his eyes and gasps, inhaling air into his starved lungs. His vision is tunneling, black and fuzzy and rushing in around the edges. He’s suddenly aware that there’s cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his palms are clammy despite the heat of the day. He feels like he did when he first woke up after being put in the imposter’s body, as if he was looking at the world underwater.

Through the haze, he can hear people calling to him. It’s his team, he realizes, shouting from below, but he can’t distinguish who is saying what.

His joints seem to lock up, his muscles seizing. His human hand is gripping the rocky handhold so tightly that he can’t seem to remember how to unclench it. In fact, Shiro can’t seem to remember how to make any of his limbs work. His heart squeezes and throbs in his chest in panic, but it’s suddenly as if—as if his mind has lost connection to this body. He doesn’t recognize the hand in front of his face as its grasp begins to weaken on the rocks.

For a split second that feels like an eternity, Shiro starts to fall from the face of the cliff.

“Fuck!”

He feels his breath punched from his chest—the hand from his floating arm didn’t release its iron grip on the rock and suddenly he’s dangling from the magnetic tether. The pain explodes in his shoulder, starbursts in his eyes, but it’s enough to startle him back to consciousness.

There’s another voice calling out to him, this one coming from above and seeming to rise above all the rest.

_“Hang in there, Shiro! You got this!”_

It’s Keith. Keith is calling to him from atop the cliff.

Shiro manages to scramble back onto the rockface, his boots finding footholds to take some of the pressure off his shoulder. That’s right, he remembers. He’s not—not a clone crash landing on an alien planet. He’s on Cyclio, his team is counting on him to pull through, the Coalition is depending on him. Keith is depending on him.

His exhausted brain clings to the image of Keith. Keith, in his red and white uniform. Keith, in his shining silver diadem. _Let’s go racing when we get home. Just like old times._

He takes in a full, deep breath.

Shiro drives the fingers of his mechanical arm into the rock itself, anchoring himself to the cliff. He reaches back up with his human arm and, with one great push, continues his scramble upwards.

It’s still a sprint to the finish between Zelus and himself, that much he still knows. He’s lost sight of Zelus for now, but he can’t let that deter him. He’s still got a chance to win and prove that he can do this.

He pulls himself up the rocks, never pausing long enough to let the exhaustion catch up with him again. He’s almost there; he’s just gotta be patient and keep his focus on moving his body.

Before much longer, he finds that his fingers are gripping the edge of the rockface. Shiro lifts his upper body up over the cliff, palms and knees digging into the dirt, gasping. He can hear more distant calls, but they’re muffled by the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

He—he did it. He made it.

“Congratulations on finally finishing, Captain.”

Shiro’s head snaps up. Zelus looms over him, baring his teeth in a smile and extending a woody hand.

The crowd below is cheering, chanting what must be the name of their prince, Shiro realizes. Coran’s voice is booming over the loudspeakers, but Shiro doesn't hear it.

He accepts Zelus’ hand and rises from the cliff edge, breathing heavy, face hot with exertion.

With shame.

After Shiro’s on his feet, Zelus turns away and waves to his adoring audience. From behind, other contestants begin to appear over the edge and royal attendants swarm in, guiding them each away. Shiro scans the crowd for a familiar face, but sees no one.

Maybe it’s just the heat from the sun, but something roils within him, ugly and nauseous. He feels rooted to the spot by a tangle of humiliation, guilt, and disappointment.

But then, quietly, a figure wearing a silver diadem emerges from the crush of the crowd and leans in close to whisper something in Shiro’s ear before disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i love to make shiro suffer! ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

In the weeks after he woke up, he hated looking at Keith.

Keith and his dark, intense eyes. Keith and his burn scar, red and shiny and raw as it swelled before healing and warping the skin of cheek. The scar made him look more Galran in a way, like a crude imitation of the stripes on Krolia’s face. Shiro knows Keith would never care about another mark on his body, but the mere sight of it—and the knowledge that Shiro was the reason for it—made him sick.

As they made the journey back to Earth, just a few days in Black with Keith made him feel like the walls were closing in, so he made up some excuse about wanting to save some oxygen and went to go hide in Green with Pidge. The tightness in her eyes told him that she had caught onto him, but at least she didn’t ask questions.

After waking up, it was relieving to return to the physical world after floating in the void of the Black Lion, but he found he could never quite shake the feeling of something being… off. And when he looked at Keith, that feeling was intensified and mingled with a sense of shame.

Getting merged with the clone—it felt familiar and wrong all at the same time. The impulse to breathe persisted, but he could never forget that it wasn’t his own lungs taking in air. He could walk through a room, but it wasn’t his legs that were moving. He would place his hand on Keith’s shoulder, the most familiar gesture in the world to him, and feel confused at the sight of someone else touching Keith. Even the floating arm felt alien to him, detached in more ways than one.

At times, while laying in his quarters aboard the Atlas after the lights had dimmed and the night shift took over, he would look down at his flesh hand—a hand that, once, tried to kill Keith. He would feel disgusted, unclean. Tainted. He’d wonder how he could exist in a form that was an affront to all the goodness he’d been working to preserve as a part of Voltron.

How can he protect Keith in the very same body that tried to kill him? How can he be sure of who he really is?

Every night for the past few months, he’s been turning these questions over in his head. Every night, he fails to find any answer. 

* * *

As visiting emissaries, the team is given private lodgings in the royal palace, even though the Atlas is docked in low orbit nearby. Allura explained it’s a cultural practice—the Cyclians prize hospitality and do their best to flatter visitors by treating them to the natural luxuries of their planet.

But, honestly? Shiro’s met enough people during his time traversing the universe that he can tell when someone’s compensating for some internal insecurity. Just like how the royal palace was the first to be rebuilt, Shiro gets the sense that these fancy rooms are just the Cyclians’ way of trying to prove to outsiders that Zarkon hadn’t taken everything from them after all.

Within the guest lodgings of the palace, there are above-ground geothermal springs, which bring up naturally heated water from deep within the planet—and make for perfect bathing spots. Each lodging chamber of the palace is attached to a small garden with a private outdoor pool.

Shiro, for all his hard feelings against Prince Zelus, is grateful they’re given an opportunity like this to relax. Piloting the Black Lion and now the Atlas have always taken a toll on his body, but after playing mountain goat for a day and lifting weights heavier than a Balmera, he’s experiencing aches and pains like he hasn’t known in years.

It’s nice to get away from the stale, recycled air of the Atlas for a few nights, too.

In the gardens outside his chambers are the heady scents of moss, of clay, of ozone, all strangely familiar smells on this green alien planet. Night has fallen and stars are twinkling in the sky beyond the treetops. From branches and vines hang bulbed lanterns, glowing with cool light that glints off the tiles of the path twisting through foliage. It’s like a jungle, quiet save for the rush of the water nearby and a breeze through the trees.

Shiro feels the humidity press in on his skin, heavy in the air and on his lungs. It’s almost a comforting weight, in a way.

He pushes through sprays of emerald fronds and fan leaves and thick vines that curtain the walkway to where he finds a figure waiting for him in the bath.

He’s still wearing the silver diadem, and it sits shining in his hair, which is weighed down with wetness and curling at the tips. Dark strands cling to his neck where they direct rivulets of water to pool at the hollows of his collarbones and trail down his shoulders, his chest, lower yet onto fully bared skin. Water only just laps at his waist.

“Shiro,” Keith says, which makes Shiro’s breath catch. “You’re here.”

“You told me to come, after all,” Shiro says. The back of his neck tingles at the memory of Keith seeking him out after the climb, lips to his ear, _meet me in the baths later._

Keith bites his lip and looks down, as if suddenly shy. “Come into the water.”

Shiro’s skin feels flushed, overheated, but not from the steam in the air. He holds his breath as he drops the towel around him and steps in beside Keith. In the pool, the water circulates, gentle currents moving around them as it rushes through filters inset on the submerged walls.

“Turn around,” Keith tells him. His brows are drawn, intent, and he’s wielding a rough pink sponge like a weapon, so Shiro feels like it’s in his best interest to comply.

He closes his eyes. A smell almost like aloe infuses the air and warm water streams down his back. Keith is gentle with the sponge, short, tentative brushes dragging down from his neck to his shoulder blades. It makes Shiro shiver. He’s never had this done to him before—never had someone _to_ do this to him before.

From behind, Keith clears his throat and says, “Your shoulder looked like it was hurting during the climb.”

Somehow, just hearing the words causes a muscle to twitch and reminds Shiro of the metal irritating his skin. The arm itself is powered down and left behind in his chambers, but the shoulder port never leaves him.

“It’s fine,” Shiro says. “Having a floating arm powered by a magic alien crystal in a clone body can disagree with you sometimes, y’know? It happens.”

Keith hums, but doesn’t push it.

Keith is thorough and slow, soaping the corded muscles of Shiro’s back, down to his waist, brushing his shoulders and neck, and where the port bites into his skin. Shiro would have expected to feel restless standing so still for so long, but the feeling of Keith attending to him, gentle at the beginning but now confident and firm, builds a rhythm that steadies his heartbeat. Relaxes tension in him he didn’t realize he held.

The baths are supplied with wide-bottomed jugs for scooping up clean water as it flows into the pool from a spout near the edge. Keith fills one and tips it over the base of Shiro’s neck, his back and shoulders, and he shudders at the rush of warmth.

“Turn around.”

Shiro turns.

Keith’s eyebrows are still drawn. Shiro has seen this look often, in battle and during sparring matches while Keith calculates his next angle of attack. But he’s also never seen this: Keith’s dark eyes, wide and open and glittering with the water of the bath in the low light, and his lips, pink and wet from the steam and parted slightly.

Without preamble, Keith lifts the sponge and drags it over Shiro’s collarbones, over his shoulder again, and down where his left forearm dips into the water. He pushes it over Shiro’s broad chest and the suds slide down his stomach, dissolving as they hit the water and are drawn away by the filters.

“You know you can talk to me, Shiro,” Keith says without looking up.

He grasps Shiro’s wrist and pulls it forward, rubbing the sponge over his hand, his inner elbow. Where a raw scrape lay on Shiro’s bicep from the cliff, the sponge is whisper-light and careful. Keith is attentive, gentle and tender for Shiro unlike the day has been—unlike the last few years have been.

“I’m fine, Keith,” he lies again. But he knows Keith doesn’t believe him.

Keith releases his hand and looks up at him. “Tilt your head back,” he commands in a rough whisper.

Shiro closes his eyes once more and exposes his throat to Keith. He smells the aloe scent again and fingertips run through his hair, building a lather. Keith stands close enough that his arms press against the tops of Shiro’s shoulders. His breath is hot against Shiro’s neck.

After a quiet minute of this, Keith pats the top of his head. “Under the water now, big guy. I’m not tall enough to dump a bucket over your head.”

Shiro kneels down and lets the water engulf him.

He emerges, pushing his hair back from his face, and he feels... different. Clearer headed, perhaps. More open. Like the filters took away more than just the grime of the day. Keith, with his wet hair, his lips, his bare chest, is still watching Shiro with that same intense look, eyebrows drawn.

“Shiro,” he says, a firm edge to his voice. “I need you to talk to me. I know something’s up.”

Shiro looks back at him and wonders where to begin.

“Keith,” he says.

For some reason, saying his name is enough to fill Shiro with a sense of strength, of bravery.

“Keith, do you remember when I first woke up after Allura put me in the clone body? Do you remember how I was?”

Keith’s expression draws inward. “You were kind of dazed, I think. You slept a lot... and you seemed really out of it those first few weeks.”

“That’s because, at first, I couldn’t tell what memories were mine and what memories were... his. The clone’s. I felt like I had just lived two lives and didn’t know which one belonged to me.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

Shiro swallows past a hard lump in his throat. “I do. Sometimes. Today on the cliff, I felt like I didn’t have control over this body. It was like I was the imposter, struggling against myself.”

“Do you sense the clone’s consciousness within you? I thought Allura said it had been erased.”

“No, there’s nothing. I’m alone. Just sometimes, I don’t know if I’m myself or the clone. I feel like an intruder in my own body and my control starts to—starts to fall away. But there’s no one else there to take the reins.” Shiro wonders if that feeling might be an echo of Haggar’s corrosion of the clone’s mind as she took control.

Keith’s dark eyes search his face. “You’re not doing this whole Contest thing just to defend my virtue from some prince,” Keith says slowly. “You’re trying to prove something to yourself. Like how you went on the Kerberos mission after your diagnosis.”

Shiro exhales a long breath. Keith knows him too well. It feels strange to discuss what’s been going on in his head out loud, as if now that he’s releasing the truth, he’s losing some part of the fight that’s been silently waging within him. But he’s at a dead end. He has to say it to someone. And who else is there but Keith?

“I thought with the Contest, with being out there—I thought it would help me prove to myself who I am. Who I say I am. If I’m real and the same Shiro I used to be.”

Keith is silent as what’s been said hangs in the air between them. Shiro fears he’s revealed too much, but Keith’s piercing look doesn’t ever let up.

“Do you remember what happened at the facility where we—I mean, _he_ and I fought?” Keith asks eventually.

Of course he does. Of course. After the merge, he’d seen all that the clone had, like some surreal movie on repeat in his mind’s eye. He’s never spoken about it with anyone—until now.

“I do, Keith. All of it.”

“I didn’t know what was happening then. I didn’t know if we could fix whatever had gone wrong,” Keith says. “But I had to try. I never lost sight of the fact that I had to save you because—because no matter what might have changed about you, it was still _you_.” His voice breaks a little on the last word.

He scruffs a hand through his hair, flicking droplets of water, before looking up to meet Shiro’s gaze dead-on.

“Look, I don’t know how to make this loss of control go away for you, Shiro. I don’t know how to fix that. But I do know that I can tell you what’s true for me and for the rest of the team.”

Keith steps closer and reaches up to rest a palm on Shiro’s bare chest over his heart. “This.” He brings his other hand up to cup Shiro’s cheek, fingertips warm on his temple. “And this. These are what you are, and that’s never changed. It doesn’t matter whose body you’re in. You’re still our Shiro,” Keith says. “You’re still _my_ Shiro. I’m sure of it. You don’t have anything to prove.”

He’s always been like this—simple, straight to the point, honest as the day is long. After all this time, Shiro realizes that’s exactly why he’s in love with Keith.

Shiro lets out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. He slides his hand over Keith’s, holding it there against his chest. It feels—wrong, at first. He has to tell himself that it’s not the clone’s hand anymore, it’s _his_ hand. _His_ body. His mind.

He tries to let himself accept the sensations, the moment, the feeling. He notices his own heartbeat against Keith’s palm, pressing the warmth against him. In the low light, the droplets on Keith’s skin seem to glitter. He’s flushed from the heat.

This close, Shiro sees himself reflected in Keith’s dark, wide eyes. The eyes that have always seen him for him.

_You’re still my Shiro._

This close, he feels the veil that’s always hung so thinly between them finally part.

The kiss is a long time coming. Lips press against his, warm and damp from the steam curling around them. Shiro moves his hand up across Keith’s collarbones, over his neck, before coming to thread his fingers through damp black hair.

It’s a relief, like the first breath of fresh air after almost drowning. Kissing Keith feels correct, inevitable, and like what Shiro was meant to be doing all this time.

It feels _real._

Before long, Keith is pressing his tongue against the seam of Shiro’s mouth. He parts his lips and Keith licks in, slow, wet. Keith is clumsy and their teeth click together, but he’s enthusiastic.

When they pull apart for air, his eyes are fire-bright. “You’re Shiro,” he says. “The real Shiro.” His breath is warm and sweet against Shiro’s face as he pants slightly. “Do you believe me?”

“I—,” Shiro swallows. Keith’s expression is so serious and so lovely that he can’t break away.

Shiro imagined this moment a million times in his head at night as he’s tried to sleep. He always dreamed it would be a sudden thing, a cord snap, that brought them together. Not something like this, after cracking open the shell that held him raw inside. It was never this real in his dreams; he could never imagine Keith’s breath, the flush across his heart-shaped face, his skin soft and pliable beneath Shiro’s touch.

But the eyes are the same. He knows these eyes; even in his dreams, even in his fantasies, even floating in the Black Lion, he was able to perfectly recreate the intensity of Keith’s gaze.

Keith—strong, resilient, whole. Keith, who saved him a thousand times over, a thousand different ways. Who has never given up on him. Who has more love to give than Shiro feels worthy of.

Shiro, who’s tired of feeling like an afterimage of the man he once was.

“Do you believe me, Shiro?” Keith asks again.

Shiro swallows. “I... I want to.”

The smile that unfurls over Keith’s face is more beautiful than any star Shiro’s seen. He wraps his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, pulling their bodies together in a tight embrace. “Good,” he murmurs from where he buries his face into Shiro’s neck. “Good.”

When Shiro kisses him again, he does so lightly, savoring the feeling of their lips brushing together. He touches Keith’s side; sliding down to thumb over the jut of his hip, sliding up to curl around his ribs.

Keith’s skin is soft with the steam; his smooth body feels good beneath Shiro’s rough, callused hand. It feels so indulgent, so much that Shiro thinks he might never be able to get enough. Firmer, warmer, more vibrant than any wisping fantasy of his could ever possibly be.

Just as Keith’s mouth opens beneath his, Shiro moves down, kissing a spot right underneath his jaw, tasting the salt on his neck. Keith makes a soft and needy sound, more an exhalation or a whimper than anything else.

Shiro pulls back slightly and Keith peers up at him with a glazed-over look, eyelashes damp with steam. He swallows. He knows he should temper his hunger. It’s been a long day and tomorrow will be longer, and he needs to rest, but the heat from the baths must be getting to his head because Keith just looks so—

He watches as a slow droplet of water slides down Keith’s chest before coming to hang from a pert nipple.

He presses Keith back against the ledge of the pool, proprietary, feeling the smoothness of Keith’s inner thigh against his own, which drives a rush of heat through his body. Shiro had forgotten for a moment that there’s nothing to separate them but water.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes out when Shiro’s hand comes up to toy with his chest. “Shiro.” It seems he has no purpose in saying Shiro’s name other than to say it.

“Keith,” Shiro says in reply. Keith reaches for him, tugging him back to capture his lips again.

The moment nudges them further—to a place where the simple roaming of hands and slide of tongues isn’t enough to satisfy either of them. Their hips press together, closer, and Shiro feels where Keith is hot and leaking against his stomach.

Keith says his name again. “I want you,” he whispers, and blood pulses beneath Shiro’s skin.

“You have me,” Shiro says. “You always have.”

His hand circles Keith’s hip and Shiro lifts him slightly to sit on the tiles at the edge of the bath, bringing them nose to nose; Keith’s thighs part to accommodate Shiro leaning in closer. The air is thick with arousal, which is dizzying if Shiro lets himself linger on the reality of it. 

He’s wanted this for so long.

Keith reaches between them, stretching around where they’re both hard with desire, and Shiro covers Keith’s small hand with his own, guiding the rhythm as Keith controls the pressure. The friction has an unraveling effect on Shiro, further unknitting the tension within him that Keith hadn’t been able to ease with the sponge and the soap. The pleasure and intimacy melt him, slow like wax dripping from the flame of their bodies.

A bead of sweat trails down the back of his neck. He feels caught up, swept away in the drag of skin on skin as a ship in the waves of a storm. Shiro finds Keith’s neck again, sinking his teeth in and sucking a red mark over his pulse.

Slowly, the wave begins to crest. Shiro hears Keith gasp, a tiny, hiccuping sound that escapes his throat in time with Shiro’s hand. Shiro leans back to see Keith’s eyes go wide and his brows draw together, mouth open, body trembling with release. Looking upon that face, Shiro feels his own body succumb to the heat, spilling over both their hands.

For a moment, the only sound is the two of them catching their breaths and the rush of water. 

Then, instead of breaking apart, Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck, pressing kiss after kiss to him, clinging to him despite the mess coating their stomachs.

Shiro clings back, resting some of his weight against Keith and feeling safer and more alive than he has in years.

* * *

Later, they exit the baths together. The bed in Shiro’s room is big and plush, and the light from the planet’s twin moons filters in through high-arched windows. Shiro’s exhausted and they’ve both got an early morning tomorrow, but he isn’t quite ready to let the night end just yet. Keith is leaning on him, dozing as Shiro aimlessly traces patterns on his back.

There is... one more thing in Shiro that he needs to get out. Something that seems to require more courage than he has left.

“Keith.” Shiro’s mouth feels dry, but despite the terror he feels, the question won’t stay down within him. “What if I don’t win tomorrow? What if I lose the Festival?”

He feels ashamed for asking something like this. It’s pathetic. He’s fought monsters that destroyed planets. He planned the downfall of a genocidal dictator. He died and was resurrected. Why does the thought of him losing some contest seem to wrench his insides more than anything he’s ever faced?

Keith doesn’t seem to mind the question, though; he just nuzzles his face into Shiro’s chest. “You won’t lose. But even if you do, so what? There’s no way they’re not going to join the Coalition because of something like that,” he says.

“As the Prize of Love, are you sure you could settle for anything less than a champion?” Shiro tries to make it teasing, but instead his voice comes out sounding very, very small.

This makes Keith sit up. Keith looks him dead in the eye before reaching up to pinch his nose.

“Ow, hey—!”

“Takashi Shirogane. What’s all this shit we say about not giving up on each other? I don’t care about some strongman contest,” Keith says. “Zelus could beat you to a pulp tomorrow and I’d still visit you in the medbay and pester you to take your vitamins or whatever.”

Keith leans back down against him. “Dumbass,” he murmurs, but there’s no real heat to his voice, and the room grows silent again. Shiro resumes running his fingertips over Keith’s back, turning over Keith’s words in his head.

“This is a habit of ours, isn’t it?” Shiro asks.

“What is?” Keith’s voice is muffled from where he’s pressed against Shiro’s bare shoulder.

“You saving me.”

He can feel Keith’s smile.

“Shiro?”

“Hm?”

“Kick that tree’s ass for me tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE SCENE #2
>
>> The next morning before Keith slips out of the bedroom door, Shiro grabs his wrist and tugs him back.
>> 
>> “Wish me luck today?" he asks, looking at Keith with his best puppy dog eyes. He doesn't always have to play fair, right?
>> 
>> Keith clearly sees through Shiro's game. He smirks and leans forward for a kiss that's long and slow and sweet, but that ends too soon for Shiro's liking.
>> 
>> Keith looks back up at Shiro, matching his loving look, and simply says, "Nah."
>> 
>> In an instant, he vanishes through the door, leaving Shiro sputtering in his wake.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning of the final Test, Keith sneaks out of Shiro’s bedchambers at the first peek of dawn light before anyone can notice his absence. The Prize of Love getting caught after a late night tryst with a contestant before the Tests ended was a diplomatic catastrophe that they truly didn’t need.

Shiro also departs early. The final Test isn’t scheduled until later in the day, but his packed schedule of political meetings and negotiations are there to remind him he has more to do than posturing in front of some leafy romantic rival.

His longest and most important meeting takes place in a large hall, one with tall, narrow windows draped in Zelus’ woven livery, where he’s set to argue his case before the Cyclian high council.

Zelus is absent, off performing his princely duties in some other wing of the castle. In his stead is the tiny Minister Bia, along with a half-dozen other Cyclian advisors whom Shiro immediately forgets the names of. They each range in height and color, leaves wilting as they reach the end of their maturity cycle, and seeing them in a row at the council’s table reminds Shiro vaguely of the overgrown flowers in his grandmother’s window boxes back on Earth.

The council regards him coolly, with Bia at the end showing barely-contained fury across his red face. 

A tall, willowy council member speaks first. “This council was foolish enough to form an alliance with the Galra a thousand years ago and our planet almost withered into nothingness as a result. Who is to say your Coalition won’t set us back on that path?”

“We’re not like the Galra Empire, ma’am,” Shiro explains, as he has at least a dozen times since they arrived on this planet. “The Voltron Coalition isn’t here to take without giving anything back. We’re here to unite our planets in the name of peace.”

“ _Peace,_ ” Minister Bia spits. “ _Unity_. Empty words. We have no reason to believe this isn’t a trick! Just as how a member of your Coalition has already tricked our prince!”

“Tricked Prince Zelus, sir?”

The tips of Bia’s leaves quiver with indignation. “Don’t pretend you haven’t planned this, Captain Shirogane! That—that _bewitching_ Black Paladin of yours has led our prince astray!”

“Now, now, Minister,” a fern-like council member levels. “Prince Zelus is of an age where infatuations come easily. It isn’t this council’s place to stop the prince from enjoying his youth...”

It takes all of Shiro’s self-restraint not to let his head drop onto the table as the council members begin to bicker amongst themselves about their prince like a gaggle of nosy aunts. He didn’t get enough sleep last night for this. At least the team’ll get a laugh out of it later when Shiro tells them that Bia called Keith ‘bewitching’.

Minister Bia’s leaves grow purpler and purpler with rage as he fails to convince the council of Keith’s supposed indecency regarding their prince. Shiro tries valiantly to steer the conversation back to diplomacy, but it takes all of them a full varga to get the gossip out of their systems. Shiro would almost rather climb another cliff than be here, but he diligently keeps his poker face.

In the end, the council members find themselves cautious but ultimately amenable to joining the Coalition—except, of course, for Minister Bia, who protests every step of the way.

“Our prince and the rest of the council may be deluded by you, but you and your so-called Coalition are not free from my suspicions, Captain Shirogane.” Bia draws himself to his full height, all three and a half lettuce-y feet of it. “Under my authority, this alliance shall never come to fruition!”

Shiro wonders idly if the tiny, round minister is lightweight enough to go sailing through the air if he were punted like a soccer ball.

The meeting is adjourned with promises of further discussions and the leafy council members file out one-by-one. He’s got another meeting in the same chamber, so Shiro remains seated. He scrolls through his datapad and looks longingly at his calendar and the scheduled lunch break that’s still two and a half vargas out.

The council members shuffle away, except for Minister Bia, who stops on his way out to linger at Shiro's table. The look in his eyes is practically murderous, but he wears a polite smile, all his sharp teeth showing.

“Perhaps our people will come to understand Captain Shirogane’s true nature during the final Test,” Bia says cryptically before sweeping out of the room.

* * *

The final Test is a one-on-one showdown between the two finalists. The winner will be crowned, honored, and declared the most worthy of the Prize of Love.

Royal attendants guide Shiro, in his full Atlas battle suit, to the entrance of an arena. As he peers through the gate, Prince Zelus is already at the center, twirling in circles as he smiles and waves at every side of the crowd that’s chanting his name.

Like the high walls of the arena aboard that Galran cruiser, caging in the fighters and elevating the audience, the crowd here sits in tiered stands overlooking the packed-dirt proving grounds. But unlike the cruiser arena, this one is open to the cloudless blue sky. There are two other entrances carved into the walls beneath the rows of seating, one draped in the prince’s woven livery and one obscured by a heavy purple shroud.

Shiro takes in a big breath to steady himself. He reminds himself that he’s wearing his Atlas armor, not ratty Galran prison garb. He reminds himself that the team is here, watching and cheering in the stands.

Hunk is waving with both arms, and Pidge and Lance are holding up what look like homemade signs with drawings of the Black Lion on one and the Atlas on the other. Keith is in the top viewing box with Allura and a few members of the royal court.

Shiro reminds himself of last night with Keith and steps forward to meet Zelus in the center.

“Welcome, welcome all! Welcome to the final round of the Festival of Love!” Coran booms. “The rules for the Test of Passion are simple! Two contestants face off in hand-to-vine combat! No eye-gouging, no hidden knives, but all manner of barbed insults are permitted! Shake hands, gentlemen, shake hands and make nice for the cameras... Right! As the whistle sounds, you may begin your match!”

Shiro reaches out. Zelus meets his grasp and the vines of his arm move and constrict around the grooves of the floating arm in a way that would almost certainly crush a human limb.

“Captain Shirogane.”

“Prince Zelus.”

“Paladin Kogane came to wish this prince good luck this morning,” Zelus declares with a smirk. “I think we both know where his affections lie no matter the outcome of this duel.”

“Ah, well,” Shiro says. “I still won’t go easy on you today, Your Highness. I’ve got my pride as a fighter left, at least.”

They each retreat to stand on starting marks that have been drawn onto the dirt. Shiro takes another deep breath as he readies his fighting stance.

The pierce of a whistle. Zelus lunges first. He swings his coiled vine-arm in a wide arc, a bombastic opening move—and one that’s easy to dodge. Shiro dives and rolls around Zelus’ flank, coming to rise behind him and aiming a strike at his back. Zelus moves before the jab can connect.

It’s like sparring aboard the training deck, except Zelus doesn’t fight like a nascent young Paladin or a nimble and silent Blade. Zelus moves with the perfect precision, perfect form borne of a prince’s careful training. Shiro doesn’t know Cyclian fighting, but he can recognize the performance of it. Each move leaves itself plainly open to a clearly designated counter, which then has a parry to match, which can then be blocked, each motion and stance practiced to instinct. Their battle is more of a dance than anything else; two actors in a stage play. They circle each other, Shiro following the prince’s cues.

In the Galran arena, Shiro fought to survive. A show of mercy was as good as forfeiting, so he shattered shells of alien chitin, seared flesh and scale with his metal arm, and hollowed himself against his opponents’ cries. But here, in a fight that feels more like a show for the crowd than anything else, Shiro’s finding he can’t help but pull his punches.

Zelus, who has never seen battle, clearly sees this as a chance to test his mettle. He starts to get braver with his blows, taking riskier swings that a meaner opponent than Shiro would use against him. But despite his inexperience, Zelus is strong and even a glancing blow from him could knock Shiro back. Shiro can tell he won’t be able to play simple defense for much longer.

When Zelus draws in close, Shiro takes his chance. He reaches out and his fingers find purchase on the rough vines of Zelus’ arm, but when he tightens his grip, sharp thorns drive into his palm. The pain makes him withdraw automatically and Shiro ducks in time to hear the whoosh of air above his head as Zelus whips his other arm in a horizontal slash.

“A brutal move from Prince Zelus! Captain Shirogane just squeaks by! What will he try next?” Coran’s color commentary riles up the crowds even further, their roaring like waves crashing.

“Minister Bia tells me humans are deceitful and cowardly, but you’ve shown me well, Captain Shirogane!” Zelus calls out, brandishing his vine-fists. “You fight in earnest!”

Zelus battles the way he brags: overeager to demonstrate his abilities and make a show for the audience. And fighting him is like, well, punching a tree, so Shiro’s got to find a new plan of action if he’s going to win this.

He takes in a full, deep breath to steady himself.

Shiro summons as much strength as he can and pushes forward, floating arm outstretched and glowing with increasing power in order to—

_BOOM._

A tremor shakes the ground. The audience’s cheers distort into shrieks. Zelus and Shiro both stop mid-strike.

A beastial roar follows, louder than any crowd member. From the third entrance, the one hidden by the heavy purple shroud, bursts forth a—

—a monster that’s surprisingly familiar to Shiro.

* * *

It’s a lion.

Well, a space lion. A space lion with a shockingly purple mane and a thick, scaly tail that lashes side to side, chipping off edges of the arena walls. Its fangs drip acid-yellow, wild eyes rolling in its head, and on its back are feathered wings half-caked in grime. Shiro recognizes the look in its eyes. The beast must be starving, newly released from captivity.

He knows this because he fought one just like it when he was held by the Galra.

The same kind of beast that took his right arm.

For a heart-stopping second, Shiro thinks that the lion-beast is another part of the Test—but then he sees Prince Zelus’ eyes go wide with horror.

“What foul beast is this?” Zelus calls out. “Who unleashes such a thing onto our sacred grounds?” To his credit, his voice doesn’t waver, though Shiro is close enough to see his leaves trembling slightly.

The prince’s voice grabs the beast’s attention, and it turns to face him. Zelus takes a step back, then another, and another, but this movement seems to set off the beast’s predatory instincts.

The lion-beast stalks forward. The audience goes silent, just scattered whimpering as they watch it approach their prince one step at a time. Zelus halts and, realizing there’s no backing down, pulls himself to his full height in the face of danger. He raises his vine-arms in the same readying position he took in front of Shiro.

Shiro’s mind races, looking for a way to subdue the beast before it lunges at Zelus. He glances up at the viewing box, but it’s empty—Keith and Allura must already be on their way to their Lions.

Maybe he could distract it with his floating arm, if only he could just—

“Voltron! It was Voltron!” shrieks a voice.

Minister Bia stands among the cowering audience members, rage turning his leaves the same shade of purple as the beast’s mane. “The humans are attacking us with this monster! They’re trying to kill the prince! Do you see!” He grabs at the audience members around him, shaking them, pointing wildly at where Zelus is being stared down by the growling beast.

“Minister Bia?” Zelus turns his attention away for a split second and the lion-beast sees its opening.

The beast charges at Zelus.

Adrenaline thrills through Shiro’s chest. He has no time to think—his body acts as it has a thousand times before in a thousand different battles. He wills as much energy as he can muster into the floating arm, launching it forward to tangle the legs of the beast.

He’s not quite fast enough. There’s a whining _crack!_ of something bending and breaking. Beneath the lion, Zelus kneels and grasps at his side where the vines of his leg meet his torso. The stiff wooden flesh there is split, splintered, like bark broken off a tree. Zelus looks up at the beast as it rears back, preparing to sink its fangs into him again—

Shiro’s floating arm yanks one of the lion-beast’s paws, sending it off-balance. He uses the weight of his body to collide with its heavy side, shoving it to the ground. The beast must be weak from hunger because it goes down easily, but it still thrashes and snarls. Shiro only just avoids getting swiped by its scaly tail.

“Shiro, above you!” Keith’s voice, projected from above. The Black Lion hovers in the air, blotting out the sun as it looms over the arena. “I need you to lure it away from Zelus! Paladins, get the audience out of here!”

Shiro tugs at the beast’s mane, trying to direct its rage away from the injured prince. It struggles to break free from Shiro, who doesn’t quite lead it to the center of the arena as much as he attempts to steer the momentum of its anger away from the prince. Its breath is hot and rotten against Shiro’s face, only just held at bay by the thrusters of his floating arm pulling its head back out of biting range. His heart hammers at the inside of his chest.

The sight in front of him starts to blur, his vision going double—he’s a gladiator again, fighting this beast, trying to hold it back but not having the strength to keep its steel-strong jaw from closing around his arm—he’s the clone on a snowy planet, gasping for breath as a monster pins him to the frozen ground—

No, he can’t let himself slip into the past. He’s not fighting alone anymore. He has to remember that.

“Keith, I need help here!” Shiro calls out.

“I got you!” Keith answers.

The maw of the Black Lion opens. With a final push, Shiro tumbles backwards as a flurry of homing arrows seeks out the beast, sinking into its fur. It howls and staggers, shaking its maned head as it struggles to remain upright.

The beast sways on its feet before crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The rise and fall of its side slows, but doesn’t stop—Shiro knows it must only be asleep, stunned with enough sedatives to knock down a skyscraper. They have to move quickly before it wakes up.

“No! No! How could you—it was meant to kill you next!” Those still left in the stands are cowering in their seats, except for Minister Bia, who is standing and clutching at the purple leaves on his head, shredding some of them in frustration. “Get up, beast! Attack the humans!”

“Minister Bia, you—!” Zelus starts from where he lies upon the ground. His voice is weak and a strange sap-like substance oozes out from the wound in his side. “You would attack me?”

“I would expose the lies of those who aim to destroy us! Voltron works with the Galrans—that Black Paladin is one of them!” Bia practically foams at the mouth in his anger. “They would only do worse if we do not stop them!”

Shiro remembers Bia’s ominous parting words at the meeting earlier and it all clicks in his head. Putting his own prince in danger—if Zelus survived the encounter, he might believe Bia’s accusations that Voltron was plotting against them. If Zelus died, Bia could take command and frame the Coalition.

In a life where his people only ever suffered at the hands of others for centuries, it was never an option to Bia that outsiders like Voltron would save Zelus. In his mind, he must not have been able to believe that the cowardly and evil humans who worked with Galrans could be anything but happy to see Zelus’ downfall. Even now, he curses and fumes and rants to the remaining audience members about the dangers of Voltron.

Shiro realizes Bia has been just as haunted by Zarkon’s legacy as he has. But Bia let that legacy consume him, refusing to break free from the cycle of destruction.

“Hunk, get Zelus to the medbay,” Keith calls out. “Pidge, can you come collect this dipshit from the stands?”

On the arena ground, the lion-beast snuffles and twitches in its slumber.

“And maybe find out if there are any space-lion rehabilitation centers in the area?”

* * *

Before the dust even settles in the arena, the Green Lion scoops up the tiny minister in its mouth like a dog fetching a rubber ball.

Prince Zelus is carted to the royal hospital, shaken but in stable condition otherwise. Bia is arrested on charges of treason and cast into the palace dungeon, where he awaits trial before an interplanetary tribunal. It was a diplomatic nightmare of its own kind for the Cyclians, but at least with Bia being out of the picture, the royal council gave their rubber stamp of approval to their entrance into the Coalition before Shiro was even done getting checked out by the medics.

In the end, no one is officially declared winner of the Festival of Love. A royal attendant apologizes profusely and explains that, because the final Test of Passion had officially ended in a draw, neither Shiro nor the prince could claim Keith as their Prize.

In other words, Shiro didn’t win, but he didn’t lose, either.

He doesn’t mind it, strangely enough. His competitive streak may twinge _just_ a little, but he reminds himself that they’ve achieved the much more important goal of expanding the Coalition—and saving a now-allied prince from an assassination attempt.

“But the council would be more than delighted to honor Captain Shirogane for all he has done for our prince and our planet!” the royal attendant announces with a deep bow.

Keith nudges Shiro in the side and shoots him a grin, and Shiro thinks that maybe he has won after all.

* * *

Upon the dais in the main palace hall, the same place where Keith was announced the Prize of Love, Zelus stands, looking regal and tall despite the fresh hell of the previous day. He reads a ceremonial closing speech to officially bring an end to this century’s Festival of Love, commending the strength of the contestants and wishing the mature Cyclians a prosperous end to their mating cycle.

There are more discussions to be held before they depart, more negotiations to be hammered out, but the closing ceremony this morning is another chance for schmoozing and currying favor with the Cyclians even further. 

While the prince speaks, Lance, Hunk, and Keith are arguing under their breaths.

“I told you this whole thing was gonna be an ambush,” Keith hisses out of the corner of his mouth, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I _told_ you.”

“How were we supposed to know some alien minister would betray his own prince to frame us?” Hunk whispers. “That’s like the plot of some bad sci-fi story.”

“Dude, Keith, when have you ever been right before? This was totally a fluke.” Lance tries to discreetly jab Keith in the side, but Keith slaps his hand away, and they only barely avoid devolving into a minor scuffle when Shiro pulls at their uniform collars like he’s scruffing a pair of misbehaving cats.

“Behave and pay attention or I’m locking all three of you in the dungeon with the space-lion,” Shiro threatens under his breath.

Atop the stage, Zelus ends his ceremonial speech and turns to matters of diplomacy.

“Captain Shirogane has shown us the purpose of the Coalition: to unite us, each and all of us, and to ensure the oppression that plagued our people for a thousand years shall never again come to pass. His demonstrations of his power, his stamina, and his passion are all proof of just that. The safety of the universe is an enormous weight upon his shoulders and those of the Paladins of Voltron, but my people shall be here to help ease the burden. Thank you, Captain Shirogane.” Zelus bows in Shiro’s direction. “I would be proud to bestow upon you the _honorary_ title of Champion of Love.”

The crowd applauds and Shiro raises a hand in acknowledgment. Maybe Zelus isn’t so bad after all.

An attendant places a thin laurel crown on his head. It’s woven in the same pattern as Keith’s, but made with tiny dark leaves instead of silver. It sits lightly in his white hair, the dry leaves brushing against his ears. Beside him, Hunk sniffs and dabs at the tears welling in his eyes. 

“Hey, Champion of Love sounds pretty good, right?” Lance waggles his eyebrows at Shiro. “Bet you could score a lot of babes with that title.”

“You did it, man,” Hunk snuffles. “You fought an alien lion, you stopped an act of treason, and you even saved Keith’s virginity from a sentient tree.”

This time, Shiro doesn’t even try to stop Keith from slapping the backs of their heads.

* * *

After the speech, the audience in the hall comes to life. Around them, aliens of all kinds laugh, dance, boast, sip nunvil, and recount the attack of the previous day, as if it had only been just another part of the Festival. Shiro gets tugged away from everyone by a swarm of Cyclian council members, who apologize and thank him in turn for exposing Bia and saving their prince.

When he’s finally released from the bowing Cyclians, Shiro scans the hall for a familiar red-and-white uniform.

In a corner, he spots the towering Prince Zelus awkwardly bent over, clutching both of Keith’s hands between his vines. He’s dressed in his full woven prince’s regalia, the blossoms on his head are full to bursting with dusty yellow pollen, and his wound is patched with hardened sap. He seems to hold himself more stiffly than before, if that’s even possible for a tree.

The polite smile plastered on Keith’s face has his cheek twitching; Shiro recognizes that look and can tell his patience is hanging on by a thread.

“Paladin Keith, you will stay for the rest of the festival, won’t you? This humble prince would so appreciate your continued presence—“

Shiro interrupts by slinging his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Highness, but I’m afraid our Black Paladin is needed back on Earth soon.” And then into Keith’s ear, perhaps not as quietly as he should: _“Meet me on the east balcony later.”_

He lets go of Keith, makes some excuse about needing to confer with one of the council members about trade routes, and bows goodbye to Zelus, leaving Keith to find his own way of escaping the prince. Shiro can feel Keith’s eyes glaring daggers into his back as he walks away and he knows he’ll probably get grief for it later, but it’s good diplomatic practice for the leader of Voltron, right?

It’s also fun to make Keith squirm. Besides, Shiro knows he’ll catch up soon enough.

As he weaves through the packed hall, it’s his team who intercepts him this time around. Allura almost tackles him, throwing her arms around his neck. "I'm so proud of you," she whispers. "You did so well."

When Allura lets go, Coran is next, pulling Shiro into a bear hug that all but crushes the breath out of his lungs. "You did good, Number One," he says.

Allura and Romelle pull him away to demand a twirling dance to match the upbeat Cyclian string music. After the song ends, Hunk supplies him with Cyclian hors d’oeuvres and a drink that tastes remarkably like Earth bourbon. Pidge and Lance beckon him to an empty hallway where they watch a video Pidge took on her phone of Shiro lifting the final weight in the Test of Power. Together, they snicker over the astonished look on Zelus’ face the moment his weight slips from his grasp.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Shiro remembers how good it feels to be part of a team.

When everyone finally gets their fill of him, Shiro heads towards the side of the hall where the sun is filtering in through high windows. He pushes open the stone balcony doors to find Keith has not only caught up, but beat him to it.

Shiro’s heart pounds at the sight.

He is waiting on the balcony, distant wild forests open at his back. Wind brushes the ends of his hair across his shoulders. The silver diadem shines in the morning sunlight.

“Hello, Champion of Love,” he says.

“Eh. Try again.”

“Captain of Love.”

“That’s even worse,” Shiro says, though he grins all the same, hopelessly enamored. Keith is laughing, eyes fire-bright.

Seeing him like this is a rare sight: in his sharply cut uniform, yet looking content and at ease rather than intense and on alert. It makes Shiro think back to the word Bia had used, _bewitching._

Shiro steps forward and comes to crowd Keith against the balcony railing, pressing flush against him. It’s a little close for what’s technically still a work event, but Shiro is betting everyone else is too busy with the party inside to notice two humans sneaking a moment together.

Keith looks up at him, eyes soft and smile private, and in a low almost-whisper, “Hey, Shiro.”

“Hello, Mr. Prize of Love.”

Keith huffs and swats at him playfully, failing to hide his smile.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks.

Shiro gives it a test roll and flexes the fingers of his floating hand where they’re resting against Keith’s waist. “Aches a little, but nothing unbearable. I feel good today.”

“Do you feel back to your old self?”

Shiro opens his mouth with an answer ready to go, but stops in his tracks. Even just a few days ago, he would have made up some lie and waved off any concern directed at him, no matter who was asking.

It’s a learned instinct, something he’s picked up in his role as a leader. He’s always felt the pressure to present confidence and strength for his team even if he didn’t necessarily feel it on the inside. Any weakness was an opportunity to be exploited by the enemy and or sow doubt in their own efforts. That mask, he realizes now, tore him apart more than he realized.

But seeing Keith here in front of him now and remembering the night in the baths stirs something within Shiro. A new urge, one to be honest, is fighting the instinct to save face.

It’s terrifying. But he wouldn’t be here today if he wasn’t the type to take risks and face his fears.

So Shiro decides to go with the truth. “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I used to,” he says. “But at least I don’t feel like... like I’m some kind of imposter anymore.” He had woken up that morning with Keith asleep beside him and, for the first time in months, not spent ten minutes struggling to come back to himself, to reality.

Keith slides his palm up Shiro’s chest, one hand coming to rest over his heart again. “It’s a start.”

“It’s a start,” Shiro agrees.

He kisses Keith on the balcony plainly, openly, for all the green planet to see. He plans to do it again, on Earth, in the middle of the orange desert they call home. He will kiss him after they board the Atlas later that evening, and again tomorrow morning. He’ll kiss Keith the next day, and the day after that. Again and again and again.

It’s the first thing that’s felt _right_ to him in a long time.

He remembers Keith comforting the clone after the Black Lion found him half-dead in that borrowed pod. He used to feel sick at the memory, but now it’s a part of him he’ll never let go.

The clone was not him. But the clone loved Keith, too. That’s something Shiro finds comfort in now, something he can anchor himself to—the idea that he’s in a body that has always loved Keith despite everything. The love that infuses his entire essence and every strand of his DNA was able to break through Haggar’s control of the clone and call the Black Lion to them. That love is what saved him and Keith both.

The knowledge of it wells up in him, a feeling so full and bright that he wonders how his heart can contain it.

Shiro has learned this: that no matter where he ends up in the galaxies, no matter what form he takes, no matter how many times he falls and rises, there will always be one universal constant.

Shiro will always love Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE SCENE #3
>
>> On the balcony, Keith reaches up to touch the laurel of dried leaves atop Shiro's head.
>> 
>> "The crown looks good on you," Keith says fondly, echoing Shiro's words from the day of the first Test. "Really brings out the white in your old man hair—hey!"
>> 
>> Shiro doesn't hold back on the headlock this time, wedging Keith's neck snugly between his bicep and his chest. Keith squirms and tries to break away, but he's unsuccessful. After all, Keith isn't the one strong enough to lift a stone weight the size of a truck tire.
>> 
>> "Be nice to me or I'll tell Zelus our trip back to Earth was delayed and that _you_ asked to be the one to sit in on all future negotiation meetings with him. _Alone."_
>> 
>> Keith does his best to shoot Shiro an angry look, but it's marred by his squished cheeks and ruddy face from Shiro's grip. His black hair is ruffled, falling out of its ponytail, and the silver diadem is askew. Shiro thinks it's maybe the most adorable thing he's ever seen.
>> 
>> He really did win after all, didn't he?
> 
> thank you so much for sticking with me until the end!!! i've never written anything this long before, so i was really nervous to share it, lol. hope you enjoyed! 


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